Disconnected
by MythScavenger
Summary: This was the moment of truth. Either she was crazy, or she wasn't. Short multi-chap.; S/R.
1. Part I

**Gosh, I need a life.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Shades of London._**

**Disconnected**

Rory Deveaux was going mad. Crazy. Or so she thought. That was the only thing that made complete sense; the only thing that could explain _what was wrong_ and _what to do about it._

The farther away she was from London, the _longer_ she was away from London, the more she began to doubt her own version of the story. Shades? What Shades? They were never mentioned on the news. Maybe the policeman and his fellow officers were just assigned to her for her sake, and were nothing more than normal humans.

The Ripper was occasionally mentioned, but real life – daily life – was taking television back. The wound was healing. Soon it would just be a thin scar; it would simply be a thin reminder of dim memories.

Her life boat was the power to terminate ghosts. That was the only thing that kept her tethered to the true story; the real story that sounded fictional. She didn't even mean to terminate them.

She only wanted someone who understood.

She was slowly beginning to stay inside more and more. School was to start up again soon, and she had finished her summer work too quickly. She tried to read, tried to show an interest in things, but no matter what, she always saw the Shades.

It made no sense, really.

Okay, the man had black hair. So what? So what if the parts peeking out from under his helmet were slightly curly? So what if his build was similar to the policeman's back in London? _He was not that certain one._ Her hopes had been so high in that one moment, and then they had been killed just as quickly in the next.

Passing by a field where some men were playing football, she could have sworn that she saw a familiar athletic build and heard the male's voice. She did more than a double-take; she doubled back and stood there for possibly ten minutes until she had to jump to the side to avoid a clumsy bicyclist.

And then, at the café, there was a girl with razor-sharp hair with a cherry red streak. Or so she thought. But, that had to be her. There was no mistaking the confident voice, or the "yeah" put at the end of her sentences.

_Right?_

At night, she would imagine that they were watching over her; sort of like Shades by day and angels by night. Or something along those lines.

She would stare at her phone, and try to recall _one_ of their numbers. The policeman's was her main priority. He was a mentor of sorts; he would know what to do. All three of their numbers were erased while she was asleep in a hospital bed. It had killed her to consider the option that one of them had removed the numbers that would've saved her now.

She just needed one reply. One word. A single, "_Stop, Rory_," would be fine. A "_This isn't safe, Rory_," or a "_You promised, Rory_," or just _something_.

As hard as she could, she just could not remember a single digit until she was going through her old Wexford things. In her "Further Maths" binder was a number scrawled in black pen on a scrap of lined notebook paper. It had been shoved into the back.

She almost began bawling. She gingerly picked it up and, with the other hand, reached for her cell. She carefully typed in the number, her fingers shaking, and held the phone up to her ear.

This was the moment of truth. Either she was crazy, or she wasn't.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang. She begged for him to pick up, for somebody to pick up; she even begged for voicemail. What if the number had been disconnected? What if she had typed in the wrong number? What if she was, in fact, going as mad as the policeman? More so? What if-

A tear of relief and despair slipped down her cheek as it went to voicemail. When the beep went off, only then did it occur to her that she had no idea of what to say.

"St-Stephen?" she took a shaky breath. "Callum? Boo? Any-anybody? Look, I know I promised…But, I found this number that Stephen gave me back – back when I was being questioned…You know when," she looked up to the ceiling.

"Please pick up. Call me back. Something. I feel like I'm going crazy, and I have no idea of what to do. I'm terminating ghosts on touch, and I just-" she broke off. "Just need you guys." The call ended when the message became too long.

She tried to breathe, but her lungs just wouldn't accept the air and she gasped; she buried her head in her hands and let out a loud sob.

* * *

A train ride, a Tube ride, and a bit of walking away, three people sat gathered around a mobile phone that was set on 'speaker.' One was suddenly fascinated by his fingers, another was wiping at her eyes, and the third was intently staring at the phone.

He slowly reached out and ended the message just as it was repeating with Rory's quiet sniffling loud in the silence. "I just got that a few minutes ago."

"Stephen," the girl said, "we have got to do something."

"You know I would if I knew what to do," he bitterly replied, glancing at her.

Callum thought something over a moment before speaking. "She said that she can terminate ghosts on touch, right?"

"How does that even-?" Boo said.

"Who knows," Stephen said, "but, yes. Correct."

"You can talk to our supervisors; convince them that we need her here as a weapon," Callum shrugged. "It might work."

Stephen's gaze fell on the phone again, the screen now dark. "Possibly."

**Welp. I made myself sad. Thanks for reading! -MythScavenger**


	2. Part II

**Yup. This will be a three-shot. Yay. :D**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Shades of London_.**

**Disconnected: Part II**

The commanding officer was usually not one to be moved. Or, if he was, he hid it very well. He had hidden his emotions inside of him so often, and so well, that he tended to lose them for days until he finally reclaimed them before just shoving the feelings away again out of fear and disgust.

"This is heartbreaking," the girl finally stated after another round of listening to Rory's various voicemails.

"I thought you removed _all_ of the ways she could contact us," Callum said dryly, cocking an eyebrow at him. "Not growing soft, are you?"

Stephen sighed. "How was I supposed to know that she kept the paper?" he took his phone from the center of the table and began to thumb through his contacts – which were few. _RORY_, however, was back in her place on the small list.

"You know what you have to do, don't you?" Boo looked at him with her arms crossed. "Call the supervisors and-"

"That'll take months," Stephen cut her off, but the man's name was already highlighted on the phone's screen. He just had to press the green button, and it would proceed to dial, and soon Rory would be a part of their Scotland Graveyard family once again.

It seemed so simple, because then Rory wouldn't be going mad anymore.

She was seeing them everywhere. She had – "_Accidentally! I swear!_" - terminated another ghost. The girl was peeling layer and layer of herself away until she would be completely raw to Stephen, to them. It was something that he couldn't help but feel a small bit of admiration towards her for.

His instincts told him to block the number, but they weren't _contacting_ Rory, and neither was she contacting them, because he had not answered her calls.

_Right?_

His two fellow Shades were examining him with careful expressions. He shoved the mixed feelings down, down, _down_, and, before he knew what was happening, had pressed the dial button and was holding the phone up to his ear.

"Hello?"

* * *

She had limited herself to a call a day.

She acknlowedged the fact that she was sounding desperate, insane, sad – basically, an ex-girlfriend who had been dumped. But, she didn't care.

When you are going mad, you just don't.

_Do you even know you're going mad if you are?_

She never allowed herself to consider that maybe, just maybe, this had been the wrong number the entire time. Or any possibilities like that.

The Shades had thrown her a lifeline without even meaning to; she was going to cling to it. Clinging to it meant no doubt whatsoever.

"_I'm sorry, but the call could not be completed as dialed-_"

Her breath caught and her fingers fumbled as she attempted to redial.

"_I'm sorry, but the call could not be completed as dialed-_"

"No, no, no," she repeated to herself. She was dizzy; she was falling. Her vision was blurring. The policeman's number moved around in a circle as she tried one more time. Three was the charm, right? Or something?

She waited for the voicemail, because the third attempt in whatever you were attempting always worked.

"_I'm sorry, but this number has been disconnected._"

She couldn't breathe. It was simply too surreal. Her phone fell to her carpeted bedroom floor, and she sat on her bed; her breath came in hiccupping sobs and she became lightheaded. Only one thought made sense; only one thought her brain chose to completely process:

_She was alone. Purely alone._

And when you're going mad, or already mad, that just makes it worse.

* * *

She hurried herself along the sidewalk, her eyes on focused on the ground, and barely managed to avoid _lucky normal not crazy _strangers; if there were any strangers at all. They were probably rushing inside now. It was raining, but then again, it was always raining.

Rory Deveaux was not exactly sure of where she was going. She had not allowed herself to trust what she was seeing, or what she was thinking, or what she was being told. The Shades – _if they had even been the Shades in the first place; maybe they were absolute strangers who now knew her entire life story, and just got sick of her calling_ – had severed the lifeline with a sharp knife.

So, she simply meandered through her daily life, through the tedious therapist appointments, not dealing with the betrayal, and not allowing herself to ever consider that there might have been a different reason why the number had been disconnected. If she did, that thinking allowed hope; look at how well her hopes had worked for her before.

"Rory!"

She stared down at the water, watching the waves swirl and turn and merge with the falling rain. It was beautiful. What would it be like to swim down there? To watch her breaths form small bubbles before she came up for air? Or if she drowned…

"_Rory!_"

She glanced behind her, but the rain was gushing down in torrents, so she only saw a slim figure racing towards her. _They're going to slip and fall. _The observation nonchalantly crossed her mind before she turned back to watch the waves now crash against the side of the bridge.

She frowned as her fingers slipped from the railing. However, she finally got a firm grip on the slippery surface. She raised a foot.

How had she even gotten there in the first place?

"_RORY GET _DOWN _FROM THERE."_

She wanted to call back something, to yell that she could what she wanted when she wanted, but before she could do so, she misplaced some limb of hers and her arms flailed and she did not know which way was up and down for the slightest moment until she began to fall and she just _couldn't_ breathe because the air was being whipped from her throat-

A thin, long-fingered hand reached out and grabbed hers. Their fingers grappled for a moment before the hand managed a grip on her wet wrist. A pale head that was attached to a drenched torso leaned over the edge; their facial features were contorted by a flurry of emotions as Rory Deveaux slowly swung back and forth.

It was almost cliche; what with the way it was raining and the way the _stark raving mad _girl had almost fallen to her early death, but was saved by the _stark raving mad_ police officer. Not to mention the way they both stared at each other in absolute shock before the twenty years old came to his senses, and took her other wrist in his other hand.

"I need you to be still, Rory, okay?" Stephen Dene had to yell to be heard over the wind and pelting rain. His shook his head as black strands of hair got in his eyes. "Be calm!"

She wanted to nod, but then again, she also wanted to hug him and curse his soul. She decided on not replying, and could not help but realize that her mind was being quite rational. Not surpised at her fall, or by the sudden appearance of the Shade. She was thinking rationally. _How was she thinking rationally_ when the waves could not reach her ankles? _How was she thinking rationally_ when her heart was beating faster than a hummingbird's wings, or the speed of light?

Numb.

That was the only option.

Stephen's face twisted in the effort to bring her up, his sharp eyebrows pulled together, and it was actually sort of _strange_ to see his expression something other than blank. She instead focused on the waters below, picking out the white foam among the darkness, but nausea overwhelmed her. Swallowing, she stared at the brick of the bridge as she was painstakingly pulled to the safety that was over the railing.

**Yay for perfect-and-yet-to-be-explained-timing on Stephen's part. (And I apologize if they sound OOC. I wanted to see what would happen if Rory's stay in Bristol took a bad turn.) -MythScavenger**


	3. Part III

**Whoops. I lied. This might be at least five chapters. Four or five.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Shades of London_.**

**Disconnected: Part III**

Despite his blank expression, the girl knew that she was going to be on the receiving end of a lecture. His knuckles were tight on the steering wheel, and he was staring straight ahead. When they reached the hotel in which he was residing, she was hustled into the bright building and into the tiny elevator and into the slightly dingy room. She was roughly handed some spare clothes of his and was then wordlessly directed to the bathroom.

After stepping out of the shower, she wrapped one of the hotel's towels around her and stared into the foggy mirror. The steam slowly faded away as words traveled through the slit beneath the door.

"_Mrs. Deveaux? This is Constable Dene. We met outside of Rory's room in the hospital._"

Rory examined herself in the bit of glass that was uncovered.

"_I'm in Bristol on official business….With the rain, I took your daughter to the station for safety."_

She came to the conclusion that she was similar in appearance to a drowned mouse.

"_Don't worry, she'll be home soon._"

She ran a few fingers through her hair, attempting to get it into a stately order.

"_She's on the toilet right now, so I'll have her call you when she comes out._"

Realizing that she had probably been in there for too long, she swiftly changed into the borrowed sweats and shirt he had given her. She gathered up her drenched clothes in one hand and then opened the door to a pacing police officer.

"You've made this very, very, _very_ complicated," he did not cease in his pacing. He began dialing another number and held the phone up to his ear. When the person on the end did not pick up, he left a vague-sounding (at least to her) message and slipped the phone into his wet pocket.

"The barriers are there for a _reason_, Aurora," he began lowly. She faintly wondered if that was the first time he had ever said her proper name. He stopped walking in front of her and peered down. "Look at me." She adjusted the clothing under her arm and did not meet his gaze. He sighed, and said in a gentler tone, "Rory."

_Why are you here?_

_You're supposed to be in London._

_I thought you had disconnected your phone._

_What's going on?_

Each sentence was wrong; each phrase felt like taking a step backwards. She felt his warm breathing on the top of her head. She did not know what had happened; it was as if her body had belonged to something else. Something inside of her had wanted her dead, or at least in the hospital.

Stephen roughly grabbed her chin, and she shook her head out of his grasp. "Help me here, Rory," he said with a hint of exasperation. He hesitantly took a finger, and put it beneath her chin. She silently allowed him to lift her head up; only her furrowed brow giving her own confusion away. "You were going to jump, weren't you?" he said, obviously trying a different tactic. His tone of voice made it sound as if he already knew; he was just hoping that she'd prove him wrong.

"I don't know," she replied. _Why was I going to jump no way was I going to jump why what if I was-_

"You were," he kept his sole finger under her chin. "If it was that bad, you should've spoken to a therapist or your family-" he stopped himself; his dark eyes widened the tiniest bit in realization. "You couldn't. Never-mind."

_I tried talking to you but you disconnected your stupid number yet you were just talking to my mother now- _She was not going to jump. She had not planned on jumping. She had only gone on a walk: a simple walk with no concrete destination in mind. That was normal, right?

"Say _something_, Rory," he finally pled.

"I wasn't going to jump."

"I saw it in your face."

"It was raining. Everything was slippery."

"Why were you even climbing, then?"

"I was on the sidewalk, and then I was over there."

"You were going to jump," he stated with a note of finality, and muttered a curse. "You were going to jump. You may not have acknowledged the idea or thought, but your subconscious, your inner-self, must've considered it at one point." He shook his head in faint disbelief, his damp hair sending stray droplets everywhere.

She stepped away from him, and his hand fell to return to his side. "I wasn't going to jump. You're crazy."

Stephen visibly flinched, and proceeded to swiftly cover it up by walking away from her and then turning around on the spot to face her again, as if he could not make up his mind on what to do. He rubbed the back of his neck.

They were quiet, and a sense of guilt tugged at Rory's gut. _Bad word choice and_ w_hy would I jump even if _I wasn't going to _if it was because of the human terminus thing-_

"I'm going to change," he announced with an air of defeat, and rifled through his small suitcase before bringing out a few articles of clothing. He brushed by her to enter the bathroom and closed the door.

Rory glanced at the door behind her, the peeling paint only noticeable because of her vantage point, and then at the sole curtained window. The room was small, built for one occupant, and she wondered just how long she was going to be there. Stephen had told her mother that she was going to call him when she left the toilet.

She had left the toilet.

"_You've made this very, very, _very_ complicated."_

If – IF – _if _– she was going to jump, wouldn't she have known? Wouldn't there have been planning, considering possible consequences, or extreme sadness? The distinct feeling of freedom before Stephen caught her-

She was sitting on the floor, her legs drawn up to her chest, when he returned. His legs thumped into her back and he made a small noise of surprise, for she was sitting unreasonably close to the door, but she did not wince.

He lingered for a moment before stepping around the girl. He dropped his still-wet clothes to the floor, not minding the stains they were going to leave, and sat cross-legged in front of her with his hands clasped. "Rory?"

"I was going to jump," she tonelessly whispered; the words were not heavy, but as light as air, despite the implications. She suddenly became interested in the carpet. _He was right – well, of course _he _was right – but he was _right… "Are you happy now?"

He mulled over his words before replying. "Of course I'm not happy, but, at least you acknowledged it." His words, despite being said with care, began to tumble over each other in the huge rush to be said. "That's why I was coming, you see. Not because of…Of what has recently happened, but our supervisors, well, they've granted the Shades and you – us - the permission to resume contact thanks to your…Your new abilities," he craned his neck a bit, but Rory was still refusing to look up from the bland carpet. "And it's been almost a year since the Ripper, so you've been declared safe. I came here to spend a day or two in getting everything in order; to tell your parents and all."

She was supposed to be happy. Why was she not _happy_? The words had registered themselves; they had made their presence known in the empty air. They were circling themselves in her mind: weaving and spinning with the possibilities they held.

She was supposed to be euphoric.

She searched for it; she really did. In the timespan of a few seconds she had mentally investigated every nook and cranny of her mind and emotional capacity. The latter was rather small or blank, and the former was rather cluttered, but the point of the matter is that no amount of euphoria was to be found.

"…It was simply pure luck that I came by when I did."

He had stopped speaking before, hadn't he? She finally looked up the smallest degree; she could see his lips and some of his nose. "When were you going to tell me?"

"I was told to not come in contact with you, but you, as I said earlier, have made this more complicated than it was supposed to be. Just like usual," he attempted a smile. One side was tugged upward slightly higher than the other, but it was a start. Her eyes traveled further and she noticed that, in the long time apart, his hair needed to be cut; it was unruly even wet.

"Do I need to call my mom?"

Stephen blinked. "Uh, yes," he cleared his throat. "Yes, that'd probably be good." He absentmindedly patted his pockets till he found the cell and passed it over to her.

She stared down at it, switching it from hand to hand.

"What's wrong?" he leaned forwards.

"You had disconnected your phone-"

"One of his – the supervisor's - conditions. I was supposed to hand the new number over to you upon your arrival in London."

She nodded, and began to dial. While she explained what "had happened" – the small wave of guilt had almost faded away, but returned thanks to Stephen's condensed version of the story -, the male had stood up and was depositing his wet uniform into one of the hotel's laundry bags.

She watched him, but lowered her eyes when his gaze caught hers. How was she able to feel the unsettling twinges in her stomach from lying, or the faint blush rising on her cheeks, but not the lightheadedness of bliss? It was so unnatural. This was what she had been hoping for, wasn't it? Contact with Stephen – with someone who _knew_ – and the prospect of returning to London. That was what she had been wanting since she sat down in the taxi cab, and watched the building of Hawthorne slowly grow small.

"Rory, it's five now. When are you coming home?"

"Um," she tugged at a small strand of carpet, "it shouldn't be for too long. I'm, ah, catching up with Stephen. I mean, Constable Dene," she corrected herself at Stephen's arched eyebrow. He was sitting on the bed; she distantly recognized the shirt as the Wallingford Regatta one.

"Rory, what's going on-"

"I love you."

"I love you, too, dear, but-"

"Just call me on my cell- oh, I left it at home, didn't I? Call me from this number if you need me, and vice versa, okay?" she rambled. "'Bye. 'Love you," she said again and quickly pressed the 'end call'. She tossed the phone to Stephen like it had burnt her. "Everything's fine. All fine."

He deftly caught and pocketed the device. "If you're sure."

She stood up and wobbled a bit, her legs numb, and then managed to sit next to him on the bed. "Thanks for letting me borrow your clothes. Again."

"It's not an issue," he breathed in, and Rory tensed. "Um, do you want to talk about it? What made you…" he glanced over at her.

She had tensed for a good reason. She shook her head no.

"Rory-"

"You had no-one to talk about it with. I can deal," she said off-handedly, looking away.

"Rory," he said, his tone sharp, "you have friends. You have family. You have-" he cut himself off. "I didn't."

**I really, really, really need a life. The next part should be up shortly. Thanks for reading! -MythScavenger**


	4. Part IV

**Sorry for the wait - I had difficulties with this one, I'm afraid. Anyway, thanks for reviewing/faving/story-alerting! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the _Shades of London_.**

**Disconnected: Part IV**

Rory Deveaux opened her mouth to reply – to say _something _that would clear her name –, but no acceptable words came out except for a meager attempt at "I'll be fine." And that didn't cover it at all.

Some part of her was a deep, deep pit that she was very, very close to. One small wrong move, whether it was meeting Stephen's eyes (they were usually emotionless, blank; not now, however), or saying too many words and that pit would swallow her whole like she was a humongous hamburger.

She yearned for a hamburger. She was American. Hamburgers were greasy_ normal_ things. They were _American._

And, if anything, it would delay Stephen's stubborn interrogation.

Stephen's brow furrowed even more, and Rory watched his fingers curl into fists. She grappled with her own sparse emotions; euphoria, the most miniscule bit of happiness, was still nowhere to be found. The options to choose from were limited: she could be sad, she could be mad, or she could be distant.

"Are you relieved?" his voice was able to be heard over the pounding rain. "Are you relieved that I came?"

"Stop that," she finally gripped his hand in her own. "It's weird." No matter how hard the girl tried, his fingers still persisted in forming fists. His nails pressed softly against the skin of her palm each time; the cursed Shade just _wouldn't stop._

"Tell me whether or not you're relieved, and I won't continue," he said, his expression serious. "Childish, but if it's the only way-"

"I-" Rory glared at him. It was a question disguised as another, and that was clever. _Pit pit pit pit pit pit pit pit must skirt around the pit- if I tell him he'll stop annoying me about it and then – _"I-" she faltered.

It wasn't that she had no idea of what to say; the words were right at the tip of her tongue – if she even wished to say them in the first place. Recognizing the fact that she had attempted to jump led to the release of all of the thoughts she had strongly believed that she had kept at bay.

It was like waking up from a dream that helped her deal. She was in complete reality once again, with her reasoning laid out in her mind's eye. She could examine it for as long as she liked, because she and her mind weren't exactly on friendly terms.

Not at all.

She audibly swallowed.

His heavy sigh interrupted her train of thought, and the fists began to cease until they stopped altogether. She waited, but he didn't remove his hand. Instead, while watching the countless rain drops stream down the window pane, his fingers gently intertwined with hers.

She was immediately drawn to the fact that her nails were nibbled and uneven, and his were short and clean.

"I can't say it becomes better," the commanding officer began slowly. "Or, at least, better overnight," the corners of his lips twitched. "But, you're returning to London. That should help." He paused. "You're just….You're simply _disconnected_ right now. That's all. You aren't going mad or insane or whatever you wish to call it." He squeezed her hand. "Whatever it is, Rory, you'll be all right."

They had somehow ended up closer together, but Stephen didn't seem to mind. A _bzzt bzzt_ was to be heard, and he used his other hand to retrieve the phone. After glancing at the caller ID, he pressed the answer button and held it up to his ear. "Hello-"

"Is Rory okay? Boo is freaking out-"

"Calm down. Rory's fine-"

"What made her do it? Stephen, you know you can't talk to her!" Some clattering of utensils could be heard in the background. "I'm glad you saved her, but-"

"If you'd give me a moment," Stephen said tightly, "I'd tell you."

"Hold on. I'm putting you on speaker. Boo wants to hear." There were some unrecognizable sounds and then Callum said that they were both ready.

Rory waited, still focused on their hands.

"I don't know what made her do it."

"No way did you just drop her off-"

"Stephen, let me talk to Rory," Boo joined in.

"She won't tell me why she did it."

"Really?" Callum said, highly surprised, and was echoed by Boo.

As Stephen began to elaborate, constantly interrupted, Rory eventually gave up on following the conversation. She was indifferent, really, to the idea of him telling them. There were no strong urges to wrench the phone from his hand and end the call; there were no strong urges to speak loudly into the phone and gloss it all over. If anything, the load she carried felt lighter thanks to the fact that she was not the one who had to relay the story.

If this was normal, she was not aware of it. She only had Stephen Dene to compare herself to, anyway, and he was far from normal - so he barely counted in that aspect.

"What? That's ridiculous!" Stephen's untamed outburst disturbed the air. She jumped, the bed slightly bouncing, but his eyes did not dart towards her. "That's absolute rubbish and you know it." The voices were speaking too low to hear; either that, or Stephen had turned down the speaker volume. He withdrew his hand from hers; the warmth faded away much too quickly for her liking. He inhaled strongly, and said, his voice restrained, "Enough. I'll see you in a few days. Yes - yes - fine, I'll get more milk," he said, ended the call, and placed the phone on the other side of him. He ran his hands through his hair. "I didn't tell them all of it; just the basics."

She nodded in acknowledgement. "What was ridiculous?"

"Don't change the subject."

Her mouth tugged down to a frown. "Can't you just accept the fact that I _don't want to talk about it_?" she grasped the air for words - words that would make him stop. "_You – _of all people!_ - should understand_."

His expression transformed to that of a lost child as quickly as she could blink. It was as if she had taken a hammer, and smashed the glass that kept up his defenses down. His superiority vanished. Her words had left a visible impact, and landed on their target so quickly, that it surprised even her and she covered her mouth.

"Stephen-"

"Okay," he managed to say, his throat obviously constricted by the grip of her well-aimed blow, "just - just don't attempt…again." His voice trailed off and his fingers clenched so tightly she knew that the knuckles were going to pop out of the skin. It was going to happen. She just had to wait, and soon she'd be rushing a Shade to the nearest hospital.

She almost wanted it to.

Just to clear the awkwardness that you could taste and Stephen's hurt that you could hear and it was simply so _confounding_ to her that of all the things to come out of her mouth, it was _that._

He briskly stood up, and Rory watched Stephen Dene recede, retreat, to hide away out of sight and out of danger. "I'll take you home."

"Stephen-" she grabbed his wrist, and his stiffness could be easily compared to the likes of a pole's.

"What, Rory?" he said. He was staring at her, yes, but she was merely not there to him. His gaze looked beyond her, and a deep sense of dread and desperation appeared - an intimidating buzzing at the back of her mind to see his eyes become nothing: no longer concerned or even emotional as a whole.

She glanced from side to side, expecting – _wishing_ – hoping – for something, for an instigator. For something that would drag Stephen Dene back out again. He was like a Rubik's cube, and she had been so close to cracking him.

She needed him back again.

Rory looked up to him, and before she considered _anything_ beyond the initial idea, and that there were more logical options - like just spilling out the entire story, but she was not one for the logicial -, she roughly yanked him down.

"Rory-" his sentence was cut off when she crashed her lips against his. He physically started, and he attempted to say her name again and ask just _what was she doing_. But, apparently thinking better of it, he let out a sigh – whether it was a sigh of defeat or contentment she couldn't tell, and frankly didn't care -, and began to move his mouth against hers in return.

**Yep. Ended it there. I think there's maybe one more part to go, guys! -MythScavenger**


	5. Part V

**Disclaimer: I do not own ****_The Shades of London_****. It belongs to Maureen Johnson.**

**Disconnected: Part V**

Stephen's lips faltered, and his hands clumsily moved to Rory's waist as she tottered. Her loss of balance, while something Stephen had easily picked up on, was something she had not. The intimidating buzz had quieted, and her brain was releasing all of the chemicals it reserves for when one is kissing another.

She needed this.

Not in the way of her going so long without intimate contact with a fellow human being, nor in the dramatic way that she just could not go one more single day without having kissed Stephen Dene. But, this was doing _something_to her. She felt awake and alive like she did when she fell – jumped?_ Did it even matter now? _– from the bridge.

This was something she could get used to.

Never-mind the fact that she was practically leading the Shade in this simple act of kissing -simple compared to her sessions with Jerome - and trying to avoid bumping noses with him, or that a tangible awkwardness could fill the air for forever more after they had drawn apart.

"Rory," he breathed, "I have to-" her fingers wrapped around various strands of his hair.

"Ror-"

She sighed, and opening her eyes, withdrew. Stephen's were staring into hers, his mouth still slightly open in the persistent saying of her name, and this just felt so _right_ despite the fact that there was still a mental pit to skirt around and her toes were aching from standing on them for so long because of his stupid height and her mind was just…quiet.

Her heart was pounding.

She slowly eased back down, removing her arms from his neck, as he watched her - not in a romantic way, really -, and his brow was furrowed and she could practically see the gears turning inside of his head. Both she and Stephen jumped when thunder shook the building. His head whipped to the window, and they were silent as a thin trail of lightning made itself known. You could barely see anything; there was a distinct grey attempting to swallow everything.

And it was doing its job very well.

He turned his head back, and a single loose trail of a thought crossed her mind as she registered the fact that he did not have a loopy grin on his face (or at least a small smile), nor did he appear loose and not as much of a Rubik's cube as he had before. His mouth was still open, and he cleared his throat before asking, "Rory…What – what was that for?" He peered down at her, and the lone trail of a thought quickly multiplied to so much, much more.

She had not thought this through.

She laughed and crossed her arms, her hands swallowed up by the borrowed shirt's sleeves. Her fists clenched and unclenched. "What do you think it was for?"

"Rory…," he trailed off before beginning again. "Rory, don't…"

_Rory, don't flirt to cover up the fact that you did not think this through._

_ Rory, don't focus on my hair and the fact that I can wear these clothes very well._

_ Rory, don't ever attempt to commit suicide again and, if you promise that, we can continue kissing._

_ Rory, don't attack me like that because I was having trouble gaining oxygen for a majority of it._

_ Rory, don't like me in that way because I don't like you in that way._

"Don't do that."

"Huh?"

Stephen ran a hand through his hair. "It's not fair to…What's his name? John? Jerome?" he met her eyes again. "It's not fair to Jerome."

Out of all of the possible endings to those words, she did not expect that. Jerome had been the very last thing on her mind; she wasn't even aware of the fact that Stephen knew his name. She mutely watched the faint blush on Stephen's face fade away.

He must've taken her silence as regret or something of the sort because he did the tiniest of nods, barely an inclination of the head, and said, "Bristol is very close to the equivalent of flooding, but I think I can drive you home." He proceeded to walk past her and to the small table near the door where the keys were.

_No no no no no no no no no no- _"I thought you could only drive the car in uniform," she spun around just in time to see him stiffen.

"Jerome isn't a reason, is he?" The words slipped through her teeth, as if they knew she wasn't planning to trust this uncharted territory, and wanted to escape while they could."You're…"

She watched his shoulders rise. Either in defense or rage, she couldn't tell.

Why was she even pressing the subject? The feeling of Stephen's chapped lips on hers was lingering, and you'd think that that would be enough. It hadn't drawn the turtle from the shell or cracked the cube like she had hoped, so why act like it had actually happened?

"I'm _what_, Rory?" he said, fiddling with the keys. They flashed between his fingers. "I'm not Jerome. You should be…You should be doing that with him."

Why act like something had happened, when he was offering her an olive branch to act as if it never had-

"I called things off with him," she shrugged off-handedly. This may have been a lie. She hadn't been in contact with him and Jazza in forever. That was _calling things off_, right? And when she and the two Wexford students had talked, the conversations had been about trivial things; short and stilted conversations about the driest of topics.

-because something _had_ happened, and she wanted that something to stay.

Stephen finally looked at her. "What?" he examined her face, his brow furrowed to the deepest point she had ever seen, and she attempted to arrange her expression to the most honest and open one she was capable of.

He had to believe her.

She wasn't sure of what she exactly wanted him to do or say, but he _had_ to believe her. For such a long time now, no-one believed in her stories. Then again, there was no-one to believe in them in the first place.

He absentmindedly placed the keys back on the table, which had a leg that looked as if it had been snapped before. "Why?" he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "You two…You two were a 'thing', for the lack of a better term." He appeared honestly bewildered at why she and Jerome weren't a _thing_. Of all the things she could have stumped him on, why was it this? "I remember seeing him and you-"

"Things can change, Stephen," she stepped closer to him, and then he took a step back in return. His palm was flat on the table's surface, his five fingers spread out like a starfish. "Is that the only thing-?"

Stephen furiously shook his head, determined to think on this certain mind-set. "You don't like me in that way, Rory. You like Jerome."

This stopped her. "What makes you think that?"

He hesitated, and she watched his tongue run over his lower lip once.

"You couldn't care less about Jerome," she took another step closer. "I'm not trying to force you to do anything, Stephen, but come on. Tell me."

He looked to the ceiling, and then back at her. There was only the rain, and then there was only the stark raving mad girl and the stark raving mad police officer. His mouth opened once, a word at his tongue, before changing it into something that looked like a grimace – twisted mouth and anxious brow -, but then he managed to gloss it over into something not so noticeable.

An intense wave of emotion – whether it was of protectiveness or vengeance on Stephen's behalf thanks to his past or just a sudden swooping feeling of appreciation for the male in front of her she could not tell – burst in her head and took flight to her toes.

"Rory, I don't want you to end up like me."

"I'm not going to end up like you."

He frowned at her persistency. "Rory, listen to me. If we – if we do this – if we kiss into oblivion or if we hold hands till death do us part, it won't make a difference. Because I'll still be Stephen Dene and I'll still be insane-"

"You aren't crazy."

"-and I don't want to influence you in that matter."

"You just need-"

"Rory! You almost _drowned – _worse yet, _jumped_. You could have _died. _ What if I didn't come? What if those _damn_ voicemails were never received? They were the last straw on whether or not I should confront Thorpe on the matter of us resuming contact!"

Heavy breathing. His train of thoughts was jumbled.

"And I almost died – at the same age you are now, practically."

"You got them."

His faced was flushed, those hollow cheeks alight, and he paused in his monologue. "What?"

"The voicemails." She wasn't aware her voice could sound so small. "You got them."

"I thought that was made obvious by the fact that we knew about your ability."

She remained silent. He liked her, didn't he? And how middle-schoolish was she sounding right now – _he likes me or not, that is my top priority right now, what about a bridge?, etc._? She'd slap herself.

He sighed. A heavy exhale, as if he had picked up another heavy weight. One that he didn't need.

His tone was low. "Please. I just don't want you to be like me."

They held eye contact. His eyes were deep-set. Swampy, almost. Murky.

"A compromise, then."

* * *

"There she is!" Callum and Boo gathered her into a giant group hug. The smell of Chinese take-out wafted from the kitchen. Stephen was putting away the milk.

"It's been too quiet without you, Ror," Callum smirked as he relinquished her.

"Much too quiet," Boo concurred. She pushed stray strands of black hair behind her ear. A hesitant question. "Are you okay, Rory?"

Rory met Stephen's eye as he turned away from the fridge. He had gotten his hair trimmed. She could see a question in his gaze.

There had been much talking, afterwards.

Much discussion of possible therapists, much reasoning, and ghosts.

Ghosts of the physical and mental kind.

And a kiss.

And she wasn't perfectly okay. But that was all right.

Maybe, finally, she was connected.

**Wow. Okay. Thanks for sticking with this and my lateness with updating. I really don't like this fanfic that much, looking back on it, but hey. I hope you enjoyed it, and that you all have a good Valentine's Day. And let's celebrate the fact that ****_The Madness Underneath_**** is almost here. :) -MythScavenger**


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